Page 39 of Hunted

“Report,” Ethan barked into his comms.

Several seconds passed before Mercy answered. “Two friendlies down, three hostiles including the mark pinning us in the hallway.”

Ethan’s eyes clashed with mine as she relayed the fact that two members of our team had gone down in the skirmish. Was it too much to hope that one was Bodie? Conversation passed wordlessly between us—a definite pro on the pros and cons list of attaining friends on Academy grounds—so, I understood without him having to verbalise that my TL wanted me to go in first. I was most accurate and therefore most likely to hit them where it hurt in the split-second advantage we might have.

We loaded fresh magazines into our guns, waited for gunshots to cover the sound of the door opening, then jumped into the fray.

And what a fray it was.

This room had been set up like an office, with a solid timber desk in the middle, close to us. It faced a set of sofas—upon which our mark sat with a mug perched on his leg like it was time for tea and biscuits, watching as Evander held the rest of our team at bay.

Two bodies with red patches lay on the floor face down, but I didn’t spare the time it took to identify them.

Evander copped one of my bullets to the middle of his vest, taking him down and allowing Mercy to press in from the other side, knocking him out cold with the butt of her gun.

Ethan darted in behind me, popping a shot in the couch cushion just to the left of Beckett, allowing us to surround him, guns drawn.

Slowly, he placed the mug down on the table, then raised his hands. A small smirk played at the corner of his lips.

“Hold out your hands,” Ethan ordered, snatching a cable tie from his trouser pocket.

Beckett wordlessly complied, staring at me over my TL’s ducked head. “What’s the plan from here?” he asked. “Drag me out by my feet?”

I snorted, wrenching the comms from my ear. “Please, you’re walking your own ass outta here, big guy.”

His smirk grew. “Now, Dek.”

Before I had a chance to process the meaning behind those two words, every single one of my comrades collapsed around me.

Fuck.

Beckett rose slowly, still grinning, uncannily reminding me of a cat toying with a mouse.

Fuck.

“For all intents and purposes, your teammates are dead. Now, I’ll ask again, Sinclair: will you be dragging me out by my feet?” He practically purred, extending his restrained hands in a gesture of goodwill I didn’t for a second buy into.

“No,” I murmured softly.

He drew closer still. “No? Then what⁠—”

His sentence died on a grunt as my elbow met his belly, driving the wind from his lungs. I followed up with a kick to his shin and a knee to the balls, though it missed and got his belly again.

Beckett doubled over, his body naturally seeking air, but not before I ducked beneath his towering form to catch him over my shoulders.

Fuuuuuck.

He had to weigh twice as much as me, at least. By some minor miracle, I did not collapse, but instead took two purposeful strides to the door.

“No,” I repeated, huffing. “I won’t drag your ass outta here… but you can bet I’ll carry it.”

Beckett didn’t even try to fight me. He just chuckled softly like I’d surprised him. The chuckle rolled into a laugh, thrumming through my shoulders. He didn’t stop laughing until I set him down outside the compound’s exit, what felt like an eternity later.

Pearce met us on the other side of the door, incredulity scrawled across his features as he clicked a button on his watch and a robotic voice sounded over the speaker system.

“Seven minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”

“I have no idea how you managed that, Sinclair,” he said, eyeing me from head to toe, “but that was fucking impressive. Well done.”